Robin Skone Palmer

Robin Skone Palmer

As cars go, little Emmerson was a bit timid. My previous Ford, Scout, was a big old Explorer who was brimming with confidence, loved to run, and looked on the highway as his oyster. Emmer, however, was a somewhat different story. Sometimes he got a bit uneasy when we’d be passed by some fool racing on the freeway, whipping from lane to lane, an accident waiting to happen. Whenever we’d pass an crash, I could almost feel him cringe. And you’ve noticed that I’m talking about him in the past tense. Just a week ago, one of those accidents got him. You’ve heard stories of people who have been in horrendous wrecks, but end up walking away although it looks like they should have been carted off in an ambulance. And now I’m one of those people. If Las Vegas isn’t the red-light-running capital of the world, it’s got to be… Read More »

So I’m sitting in my car thinking, “why was that so hard? Why do I feel like crying?” It makes no sense. The relationship had not been good and it was past time for it to end. Yet, as walked away, I felt pricking behind my eyelids. I turned around for one last look. I truly don’t know why saying goodbye is so hard. “Goodbye, Foster,” I whispered. “Someone who really wants you is going to come by soon.” Foster was a 2012 RAV4 that I’d bought under duress. My old car was a Ford Explorer that I’d saved for, planned for, shopped for and loved. We’d had wonderful adventures together until he started having more problems than I could deal with. I finally threw in the towel and traded him for something almost new. From the day I drove off the lot, I knew the RAV4 was all wrong. I told my friend Phyllis Palmer… Read More »

I know I’m not the only person on the planet who names my cars. In fact, I’m willing to bet a lot of people do — probably more women than men. My first car, a little blue Renault, I named Ozzie. No idea why — it just looked like an Ozzie. My next car was a red Studebaker Hawk when I was in the Foreign Service in Pretoria, South Africa. One of the Foreign Service officers was leaving and sold it at a price I could afford. The car came pre-named: The Sexy Red Flash. So Flash it was. In London I got a second-hand Peugeot and named it Scout because it was a trusty little guy who accompanied me on all kinds of adventures into uncharted waters — and meadows and villages. When I got home to California several years later, I bought a second-hand Volkswagen squareback (fancy name for little… Read More »